


The Princess

by thesmallchameleon



Series: Tales Not Worth Telling [2]
Category: The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: Adopted Sibling Relationship, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Electrocution, Food, Found Family, Gen, Graphic Description of Corpses, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Starvation, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jonny-Typical Swearing, Minor Character Death, Not all are graphic depictions but please stay safe, Physical Abuse, Theft, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Wait that's an ideal tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24987100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesmallchameleon/pseuds/thesmallchameleon
Summary: He'd hated her at first. Hated her because she was 17 and pretty and far too thin in the wrists and wore spectacles that perched too delicately on the bony ridge of her nose and spoke in a soft voice with a diplomatic tone and when the doctor looked at her she smiled in a way Jonny hadn't seen in a century.Or how a Cyberian princess became Jonny's first friend. And maybe something else.
Relationships: Jonny d'Ville & Nastya Rasputina, The Aurora/Nastya Rasputina
Series: Tales Not Worth Telling [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1792681
Comments: 23
Kudos: 126





	The Princess

**Author's Note:**

> There's a lot of warnings in the tags, but honestly I think it's just about as bad as anything in the Mech's universe. I'm mostly just trying to be thorough. (Also please let me know if there is something I missed. I tried my best but there's... a lot.) The one thing that I'm trying not to shy away from is the fact that Jonny is a murderer who is going to indiscriminately kill innocent people. (Dang it's hard tho. You have no idea how much I want him to just. Keep missing.) I honestly feel weird about writing a character like that as being sympathetic and I'm really trying to not like...excuse that part of his character? But I feel like it's really important to not rewrite him as some sort of vigilante, especially because that trope often falls into pushing an ideology where doing something wrong or being a "bad person" means you have a right to be killed and while that's all well and good in fiction I think it influences the way we think about things in society as well in terms of institutions of violence like the police, prison, and the death penalty. So in a way, leaving Jonny as an indiscriminate killer feels...less insidious? Like. You know it's terrible. I know it's terrible. We all know it's fake and for entertainment purposes because humans are weird and obsessed with our own mortality but hopefully it's not pushing the vengeful ideology that we tend to adopt to make ourselves more comfortable with this fact? Wow I did not mean to write an essay here lol. Anyway just something I've been thinking about.

He'd hated her at first. Hated her because she was 17 and pretty and far too thin in the wrists and wore spectacles that perched too delicately on the bony ridge of her nose and spoke in a soft voice with a diplomatic tone and when the doctor looked at her she smiled in a way Jonny hadn't seen in a century.

"What the fuck?" was the first thing he'd said when the doc had appeared on the bridge of their new ship carrying the bleeding corpse of a young woman. To be fair he was thoroughly drunk, having made his way through most of the bottle of vodka cradled at his side. But he seemed to sober up quickly these days, much to his own distress.

The doc didn't say anything. Not about the dead girl in her arms, not about the ship Jonny had won for her, not even about the five cooling corpses strewn about the place that Jonny hadn't had the chance to clean up yet.

She only crossed the bridge, heading towards some specific corridor as if she knew the way, which, Jonny supposed, she probably did. She had asked him to get this ship specifically, after all, so it shouldn't have been a surprise that she'd already studied the schematics and selected which chambers were to be hers.

Jonny watched her, bewildered, then stood, swaying a bit in his drunkenness, and followed.

She passed a number of doors without giving them a second glance, though none appeared to be labeled in any way either of them could read. There were a number of languages Jonny found he knew now without even trying, but Cyberian was one that would always somehow remain outside of his grasp. He wondered if the doctor did this intentionally, left gaps in his programming just to frustrate him, or if she really didn't know how to fix it either.

She stopped at a nondescript door with a panel in front of it. Jonny watched her eyes flit over the panel, studying it for just a moment.

"Jonny," she said suddenly, turning to him and holding the girl in her arms out to him. His eyes widened, but he stepped forward mechanically and took her, one arm under her knees and the other under her shoulders. She was tall and a little unwieldy to hold, but thin enough that Jonny could support her weight with relative ease. Her eyes were closed, behind square spectacles flecked with drying blood, and her skin unnaturally pale beneath the dark crimson that spattered across it. She's still warm, pliant in his arms, and he found himself staring at her bloodied fingers, the short, neat nails, and creased joints, curled against the huge dark stain of her stomach.

The _whish_ of the door startled him out of his reverie, and he looked up. It seemed the doc had succeeded in getting it open. She passed through it, calling for Jonny as she did.

"Bring her in," she said.

He was surprised (though maybe he shouldn't have been) to find himself standing in a lab, not too dissimilar from the one they had left behind so long ago, though much more sparse. It wasn't run-down, seemingly kept to the same degree of military cleanliness as the rest of the ship, but it also clearly wasn't currently in use, if it ever was.

"On the table," the doctor directed, already busy taking stock of the limited tools and supplies.

He watched her methodical motions for a moment, reactions still a little slowed from drink, then carried the dead girl over to the examination table in the corner of the room and laid her down.

"The old ship is in the hangar," the doctor was saying. "I need you bring my tools. The rest of the unpacking can wait, but this is best done quickly."

Jonny stared at her for a moment in his stupor, not quite wanting to prod at whatever "this" was, then nodded before leaving to collect the doctor's things.

And when he later saw the dead girl wandering the ship, he wondered how he could have been so stupid as to not suspect. Or if he just desperately hadn't wanted to.

He avoided both of them for a while, relegated himself to the quarters he had chosen, and spent a few weeks or months drunk and angry for reasons he was luckily too drunk and angry to examine. The ship took off at some point, probably pretty early on given that it was stolen and sitting on a planet rife with revolution, but Jonny hadn't exactly noticed, being in all likelihood blacked out or half-way to it at the time. As it was, he didn't have the faintest idea where they were or where they were going, not that it mattered. All he knew was the bitter taste in his mouth when he was awake, and the inky blackness and nightmares when he was asleep.

He left his quarters rarely but had to do it every now and again to restock on food and (more often) drink. And while he managed to perform most of these excursions without running into either of the ship's other occupants, he was unlucky enough to stumble across them every now and again.

Dr. Carmilla scolded him whenever they crossed paths. Told him he was acting childish and to stop sulking. That if he was so jealous of "Anastasia," he might want to consider how his own behavior and general performance put him in such a position in the first place. And of course Jonny fought back. Of course he yelled and swore and argued with all of the clumsy petulance that the doctor and her newest ward lacked. She just looked at him with a calm distaste and mused aloud where he'd gone so wrong.

He shot at her once, in a particularly drunken fit. He'd missed widely, but the doctor had said he'd hit something important in the ship's workings and so dragged him to the lab to tear him open and figure out if the decomposition potential of the blood that ran through his mechanism was any different from the blood that didn't. It took hours of electricity coursing through his arteries and veins for the doctor to come up with an answer that satisfied her, especially since (she told him) the sheer amount of alcohol in Jonny's blood was skewing the results.

Somehow he managed to avoid the doctor a little more effectively, after that.

He didn't talk to "Anastasia." He came across the two of them talking a few times and made himself scarce. But not before noting the sickeningly succoring tone the doctor took with her, the way her deft arm curled possessively over the girl's shoulder, the way her fingertips pushed firmly into the fabric of her shirt-sleeve and the skin of her arm. And he hated the perfectly gracious way in which the girl responded—the smooth timbre of her voice, the way she stood up straight and didn't spare a glance to the fingers placed on her flesh, the way she was so clearly unafraid when she so desperately should've been.

He hated seeing her, wandering the ship like a ghost, wearing the ill-fitting clothes of Dr. Carmilla, brushing her fingers along the walls and growing ever thinner, ever paler, but always with her chin held high, as if this were her palace, and she the acquiescent princess.

He caught her once, on his way to the kitchens, standing idly at the entrance and staring vacantly into the distance.

"The fuck are you doing?" he asked, too weirded out to spin on his heel and turn the other way as he usually did. She was in his way after all.

She didn't jump, but turned to look at him, eyebrows raised in curiosity and surprise. Which was fair. It was the first thing he'd said to her after all.

"Nothing, I guess," she said. Matter of fact, not defensive. It was a bit odd, having that smooth tone directed at him.

Jonny scowled and pushed passed her, into the kitchen to make himself some dinner. It'd been a while since he'd had a proper meal, having spent the past however many weeks drunk off his arse. By all rights he should've had a hell of a hangover (should have been dead, more like) but there was only a vague pulsing behind his eyes. Still, it annoyed him.

He grabbed a glass and filled it with water from the sink, then downed it in one go. It was as he stared blankly into the empty bottom that he realized if was the first he'd drunk in weeks. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember the last time he'd consumed anything that wasn't at least 80 percent ethanol. He didn't know why the dull headache annoyed him so much more than the thought of the raging hangover he by all rights should've had. He filled the glass again and chugged instead of thinking about it.

He spilled a bit, and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand as hunger suddenly hit him full-force. He hadn't realized that either, but now that he did, he wanted something dense to settle the fluid nausea that swirled in his guts.

He grabbed a potato from the pantry and cut down a couple of sausages from the strings that hung from the rafters. The ship was well-stocked when they had taken it, ready as it was to be deployed with a much larger crew than the one that currently occupied it. It would be a good while before they had to stop for supplies, or even break into the ration bars that were kept for lower members of the crew and emergency situation.

Jonny stabbed the potato a couple of times and dropped it into the gamma oven, then set a pan on the stove and poured in some oil to fry the sausages. When the oil was hot enough, he dropped in the sausages with a sizzle and prodded at them with a fork. It wasn't long after he'd added them that the oven dinged. He opened it and pierced the potato on the same fork he'd used on the sausages before dropping it onto a plate and splitting the steaming thing open to cool.

"How did you do that?"

Jonny looked up, realizing for the first time that the girl was standing in the doorway, watching him closely. The corner of her mouth turned down in a frustrated scowl.

"What?" he said, glancing at the plate in his hand. "Bake a potato?"

She didn't nod, but her lips pressed together thinner, and Jonny took it as a yes.

"The fuck?" he said, looking around at the kitchen. "This is your ship, your technology. You're seriously telling me you don't know how to work an oven?"

"You don't have to be a dick about it," she said, crossing her arms. And that's not exactly the sort of thing he expected to come out her mouth but alright.

"I mean, fuck you, I do what I want," he said, "but what have you been eating then? Don't tell me the Doc's been feeding you this whole time."

The girl just shrugged with one shoulder.

"She hasn't," she said.

Jonny studied her for a moment, the square frame of her shoulders that could be strong if they weren't so bony, the hard cut of her gaze, and the stubborn rigidity she held herself with, chin high.

"Right," Jonny said. "Sit."

He turned, set the plate down on the counter and pulled another plate down. He didn't look behind him, but heard the scrape of a stool. He went back to the pantry, grabbed another potato and a few more sausages, then as an afterthought, a jar of preserved strawberries as well. They were a bit too sweet for him and his headache at the moment, but the girl might like them.

She watched him silently as he tossed in the extra sausages and cooked the other potato, sitting at the island on the stool he'd dragged in from the canteen to reach the taller cupboards. He scooped a couple of strawberries onto one plate and slid it across to her with a fork and knife before leaning against the counter behind him and tucking into his own food.

He watched her as she ate, slowly at first, then more ravenously as her hunger overtook her. After watching her choke down one particularly large piece of sausage, Jonny set his own plate down and filled another glass with water before pushing it towards her.

She looked at it, then at him and the half-amused look on his face and scowled. But she took it anyway and drank before returning to her food.

It'd been a while since Jonny had properly eaten with someone. Not that anything about the way he stabbed at his sausages with one hand while holding his plate up with the other as he leaned against the counter because the only other seat in the room was currently occupied was proper, but it's not like decorum was ever a major concern of his.

She seemed to like the strawberries, and her eyes flicked to the open jar before she'd even finished chewing the last one. He snorted, but paused to slide the jar across the island to her.

"Not my fault if you get sick off 'em," he said. She made a face as him, but only took two more before pushing the jar away.

She was different up close. Not the wilting flower that Jonny'd pegged her as, too naïve and polite to see through Dr. Carmilla's façade. She still held herself with an air that was undeniably aristocratic, which Jonny hated on principal, but somehow without the accompanying condescension he'd come to expect.

"So what are you, a princess or something?" Jonny asked as she finished up the last of the food on her plate.

She finished chewing and swallowed before she answered.

"Yes," she said, straight-faced. Jonny snorted, but she just stared at him blankly.

"What, you're serious?" he said, incredulous.

"Of course." Her eyebrow raised, as if it was ridiculous that he even asked. "I am the Princess Anastasia Nikolaevna Romanova of Cyberia. Or, was, I suppose."

She looked a little distant as she said it, and Jonny thought about the revolutionary shit-show they'd witnessed on her planet and decided that yeah that was fair. Especially if she was who she said she was.

"I'm not calling you all that," Jonny said, instead of commenting on any of the rest of it and shoving the last bit of sausage in his mouth. He wasn't used to being the last to finish a meal, but the princess had been hungry and he'd been…distracted.

She rolled her eyes but said anyway, "Call me Nastya. I prefer it."

"Mm," he said, swallowing. "Jonny."

"It's a pleasure to meet you Jonny," she said, sincerely, though not without a glint in her eye that edged on sardonic. He snorted.

"You'll regret saying that," he said.

Nastya smiled.

"I'm sure I will."

He showed her how to work the gamma oven, in as much as he knew how, and she took to it much better than he ever would have. Not that either of them got fancy with it, but she figured out how to stop the edges of toast from charring and that was enough to make Jonny grumble at her smug smile for a week.

They didn't eat together regularly, not on purpose at least, but sometimes they happened upon each other in the kitchen, as much so as anywhere else.

Jonny still spent a fair amount of time in his quarters, avoiding Dr. Carmilla, but he spent more of it exploring the ship when he was sure she was in her lab. The Aurora was big, with twisting corridors that often led to unexpected places, and an abundance of rooms to explore. They were fairly boring, what with Aurora being a military ship and all, but there were certainly a lot of them.

He came across Nastya a number of times in his explorations, as it seemed she had taken to doing the same thing. Sometimes he joined her in her wanderings, other times, when she seemed particularly distant, he let her be.

"What are you doing?" he asked her once, when that distant look had overtaken her. She blinked out of it.

"Listening," she said.

"To what?"

She brushed her fingers along the paneling and smiled.

"To Aurora," she said. "She has a lot to say."

He looked at her, then around at the metal ship that surrounded them that didn't seem to be saying anything.

"Well that's fucking weird."

He stopped bugging her to explain only when he found her curled in the engine room, stroking the panel with her thumb and whispering something he couldn't quite hear and didn't quite want to into the heart of the ship.

Yeah. He didn't want to touch that with a ten foot pole.

They stopped at some system, early on, and in those days Nastya could tear herself away from the ship long enough to wander around with Jonny a bit planet-side. It was a pretty dull planet. But it was something other than the ship and that was enough for Jonny.

They were wandering through a city, midmorning but empty, likely due to the holiday the night before, when Nastya stopped suddenly in front of a store.

"That's mine," she said, and Jonny followed her gaze up to a violin that hung in the window.

"Alright," he said, already reaching for his pistol. "But you do realize if you want a violin we can do much better than a pawn shop. Price is no object when you're not paying."

"No." She grabbed his arm and he met the fervent look in her eye. "You don't understand. That's _mine_."

His lips pressed together in a scowl.

"Right," he said, and kicked the door open.

The person behind the counter startled at the door bursting open, clearly not expecting any business at all the morning after one of the planet's largest celebrations and more than likely a bit hungover. They're eyes widened as Jonny pointed the pistol at them, a manic grin taking over his face. They raised their hands in the air automatically. Good instinct.

"Hello good Shopkeep," he said, hearing a much less dramatic jingle as Nastya came through the door behind him. "Pray tell where a fine shop as this might come across an artifact such like the one hanging in your window display?"

"W-what?" they stammered, pure confusion mixing with the fear in their expression.

"The violin." He dropped some of the mania and let cold anger creep in. "Where did you get it?"

The shopkeeper glanced at the violin, which Nastya was already in the process of retrieving by means of dragging a chest over to climb up on. Jonny didn't watch her for long, keeping his gaze locked onto the shopkeeper. Not that he thought they would try anything. The surprise and fear on their face seemed real enough, but their instincts were a little too good. He had a feeling they knew danger more than they let on.

"Just, someone brought it in," they said, nervously looking back to Jonny. "I don't know. Didn't ask."

"Oh that makes perfect sense," Jonny said. "Wouldn't do for a fine establishment such as this to keep records of any sort. You know, to protect against the redistribution of stolen goods."

The shopkeeper swallowed at the word stolen, but didn't say anything.

"Nastya," Jonny called suddenly and glanced at her to see she had finished packing up the violin in the case that had lain open below it. "Anything else of yours?"

She glanced around quickly and nodded.

"A few things," she said.

Jonny turned back to the shopkeeper, who visibly paled.

"It seems this mystery seller brought in a few items," Jonny said, eyebrows raised. "Are you sure you weren't mistaken about those records?"

"I have to protect my suppliers," the shopkeeper stammered. "If I don't, my business—"

Jonny pulled the trigger. The shot landed right between the eyes of the portrait on the wall behind the counter. Damn. He'd been aiming for the shopkeeper's arm. The result was, however, cool enough, and effectively threatening by the way the shopkeeper stared at the hole in the painting's head, eyes wide.

"Your business," Jonny said, stepping towards the counter, "is staying alive. And right now I'm the only one who's selling."

The shopkeeper swallowed, then nodded, lips pressed together.

"A man named Ivan Petrov," they said. "Or that's what he calls himself. He's come in before with Cyberian goods. I don't know where he gets them. Those aren't the sort of questions you ask. Just that he had a high-price for this last batch and I got the sense I wouldn't be seeing him again."

"Description?"

"Tall, white, dark hair," the shopkeeper rattled off. "Scar across his nose. Bit of odd facial hair I've never seen him change. A sort of short full beard and goatee without the mustache. That's all I have."

Jonny glanced back at Nastya, who seemed to have finished collecting her things, including a coat which she was now wearing, the pockets bulging with smaller items, a couple of dresses and other clothes draped over one arm, and the violin tucked under the other.

"Well," Jonny said. "It seems we're finished then. Thank you very much for your hospitality. I wouldn't worry about anyone coming after you over this little slip-up."

"Why not?" they asked, looking confused.

Jonny pulled the trigger again. The shot ripped through the shopkeeper's throat. Blood splattered on the portrait behind them and spilled across the counter as they slumped over it.

Damn. He'd been aiming for their head.

When he turned, Nastya had already left the shop, so he headed for the door himself, stopping briefly at a table of knickknacks and picking up a little rectangular box out of interest. He opened it to find a shiny harmonica sitting in black velvet. He closed the box and slipped it into his pocket.

He had to jog to catch up with Nastya when he emerged from the shop. She could walk surprisingly fast when she wanted to.

"Did'you get everything?" he asked when he'd caught up with her.

"Almost everything," she said. "There was a…writing desk."

"Want to come back with the ship?" he asked, but she just shook her head.

"Best leave it," she said. And one look at her thin-pressed lips and distant gaze told him not to press the issue.

He hummed. No one had come out at the sound of gunfire, either all still home and hungover, or too smart to poke around in an area like this one: wealthy and simmering with an underlying sense of danger.

"You didn't have to do that," she said, after they'd walked a bit.

"What?" he said, glancing at her, incredulous. She just stared straight ahead. "You were the one who wanted the damn thing."

"Not that," she said, cutting him off. "You didn't have to shoot them."

He stared at her blankly for a moment, then let a snarl take over his face. He cut in front of her, facing her head-on. She stopped but tilted her chin up in defiance.

"Obviously, I didn't have to," he said, letting a sick smile settle on his face. "I don't do anything because I _have to_. I do what I _want_ and I wanted to kill them."

"But they weren't—"

"It doesn't matter," Jonny cut her off, "what they were or they weren't. I wanted a hole in their head and their blood and brains spattered on the wall. I wanted them to be a corpse and now that's what they are. If you have a _problem_ with that, Princess—"

"I don't," she said, stubbornly.

"Well good."

"Fine."

They stood-off for a moment, eyes locked.

"Can we continue, then?" Nastya asked, pointedly. Jonny scowled at her for a moment longer, then stepped aside and fell into step beside her.

The silence was tense, and Jonny wondered idly if he would have shot her right then and there were her arms not full of goods they had just gone through the trouble of reclaiming.

His anger didn't fizzle. It never did. But when he spoke again, his voice was casual.

"So," he said. "Want to track down this Ivan fellow?"

She smiled and shook her head.

"Alright."

There was something about Nastya. Something about her and him and the ridiculous, horrible, wonderful hell they found themselves in. They fought often. Sometimes playfully, sometimes viscously. They argued, and ate, and didn't grow or learn or change. And as the crew started to grow, and Nastya retreated into the depths of the Aurora, into the depths of her love, Jonny never let her hide for long. She was too annoying to be left alone like that. The rest of the crew had to know and see it too (though if anyone was stupid enough to get caught in their crossfire, they almost exclusively sided with her and that just wasn't fair). And when he found her, sometimes, sitting in a forgotten corridor or porthole window looking out at the eternal sea of stars and knew that her limbs ached from the blood that coursed through her veins, heavy, and cold, and wrong, he sat down beside her and pressed his warm shoulder against hers and settled into the lull of his own mechanical heart, beating with a steady rhythm that was never his at all.

And when she left, after so achingly long and yet never long enough, he was sure. That despite the bullet holes and stab wounds and betrayals and deaths, that was the day his heart broke for real.

**Author's Note:**

> Absolutely no one:
> 
> Me: Jonny d'Ville has terrible aim. He's a little bastard man and he cannot hit a target with a gun. Half the reason is he doesn't care so he doesn't try but mostly he's just got really shitty aim. Terrible little man has been shooting a gun for millennia and can't hit anything. Tiny little bastard man.


End file.
